How many times did I hear this when I was little? After a while I didn’t need it whispered into my ear anymore, I embodied it. I knew there were things I was never expected to say, at home or out in public, like they never happened. Off limits for good, like a dangerous abandoned mine.

It made for an interesting supper time as my family sat around chatting. Never characterized as quiet people by any stretch of the imagination, my parent’s hushed tone signaled an off-subject topic that immediately sank into the family vault. Adoptions, affairs, sickness, rage, runaways, sexuality, abuse, alcoholics, you name it. They called them Family Secrets.

Now as a parent with a lot to explain I finally understand what they were trying to accomplish, walk a very fine line between what’s public and what’s private behind and outside closed doors. What do you share with others? What things do you keep to yourself?

Last week Hope came home in a panic. Not thinking of the consequences (and probably just wanting to make conversation) her brother commented to some friends that Hope named herself. Since she’s stealth at school this information is strictly confidential, and Will knows it. Although she profusely denied the claim to her friends, she retained a look of betrayal several hours later as we sat at the dinner table to discuss.

Looking more like a hungover frat boy than a well-intentioned 5-year-old, Will sat with his head in his hands as he kept saying, “I don’t know why I said it.” I believed him, and yet the question of boundaries was sitting before us like the holiday meal scheduled less than 48 hours away.

“What if Hope talked to your friends about the fact that you sleep with your Lovey at night?” he popped upright looking remarkably alert, and shocked, “Would that make you feel good? Would that be something you’d like your family to share with your classmates?” His answer was clear. And so we talked about what privacy means and why it’s important to us. No threats of retribution. No code of silence like when I was young. Just logic infused with love.

That night I lay in bed thinking of how parenting feels like one long essay question. Every so often there’s a pop quiz that tests your skills. What have you mastered? What needs improvement? It challenges me to use my voice as an individual and a parent instead of mindlessly falling back on the way I was raised.

My children are encouraged to speak their mind and stand in their truth. Most of the time it works out for the best, and other days it becomes crystal clear that we are still learning our boundaries and finding our way. I’m grateful for this. Hope learned how to handle feeling outed. Will learned that his words have consequences, and can hurt people. I learned that I am not so afraid of secrets.

Immediately one hand lifted from the steering wheel as the radio began playing this & without looking I gently grabbed her ankle and gave it a squeeze… and I didn’t let go until the very last verse. Thank you Pretenders for giving me a song that said all the things in my heart that I just couldn’t find words for that day. 

Oh, why you look so sad?
Tears are in your eyes
Come on and come to me now
Don’t be ashamed to cry
Let me see you through
’cause I’ve seen the dark side too
When the night falls on you
You don’t know what to do
Nothing you confess
Could make me love you less

I’ll stand by you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you
I’ll stand by you

So if you’re mad, get mad
Don’t hold it all inside
Come on and talk to me now
Hey, what you got to hide?
I get angry too
Well I’m a lot like you
When you’re standing at the crossroads
And don’t know which path to choose
Let me come along
’cause even if you’re wrong

I’ll stand by you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you
I’ll stand by you
Take me in, into your darkest hour
And I’ll never desert you
I’ll stand by you

And when…
When the night falls on you, baby
You’re feeling all alone
You won’t be on your own

I’ll stand by you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you

I’ll stand by you
Take me in, into your darkest hour
And I’ll never desert you
I’ll stand by you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you
I’ll stand by you

Today while sorting laundry his words danced across my consciousness like opening credits in a romantic comedy and I quieted my thinking long enough to evaluate what it meant to me. It’s true in the past I’d reinvent myself. My job hit a plateau and poof! I’d have a better one. A boyfriend broke up with me and chop! went the hair. Bored with my apartment and voila! I’d be in a cuter place across town before the month ended. A friend makes a snide remark (like I wouldn’t fit in her skinny jeans even if I tried… not like I remember that or anything) and snip! went the ties that bind us. Yes, I could stop dead in my tracks, switch direction and forge a new path without a moment’s hesitation. Yes, I could pick myself up and change the scenery. Yes, I could run and hide and pretend nothing happened. But it did.

When my friend of many, many years said this, I think he was trying to compliment me, even comfort me that I didn’t need anyone else’s help. I would be just fine on my own no matter what because I had this fabulous quality the way he spoke about it. Always-have-and-always-will type of thing. A couple years ago I might have beamed with pride at hearing that assumption about me, but today it leaves me hollow, like a dingy, vacant apartment with little bits of packing tape on the floor and empty, bent hangers in the closet. Just pick up and reinvent myself now? Me?

The concept is utterly foreign to me if I am honest with myself, but perhaps I’m not expanding my thinking far enough. Just maybe each time I scrapped where I was I simply moved closer to being who I really was. Instead of thinking that I put on a new disguise, like I lived my life incognito in some weird way, maybe I can see how each decision navigated the course toward finding the real me? Deep in my heart I believe there is a divine time, divine order in constant control. Whether I resist or not is up to me. My actions are up to me. Still, does that mean that I am forced to shift gears when things go sour? Or do I have the power to ride the wave of challenging times with complete surrender? I think I’m growing up.

Let’s face it. It would have been easier to chuck everything and move when Hope transitioned two summers ago. No doubt about it. If I was the one-trick-pony my friend alluded to than I would have reinvented us somewhere else and started over, right? I’m not saying that moving fixes every single hurdle, it doesn’t. Nothing does. But it does give the chance to have some breathing room. Despite myself the thought never crossed my mind to leave our city and go where no one would know us. If anything I was on auto-pilot digging deeper to keep things grounded and normal and real.

Maybe that’s a signal of me outgrowing my more impetuous reactions and quick-fixes or better yet, not needing to chart the course in search of myself. I’m here. And I’m handling my problems moment by moment, not by changing my surroundings either. In the end I think my friend was partly right, no matter what happens I will be okay. Not because I can change directions and start fresh, but because I can stand still and just be me.

“Nick? Nick, is that you?” she asked, her head bobbing in the yes direction as if she was the person who was making this decision and possessed the power to make us agree by placing us in a trance like state with her nod. The three of us sat there in the park perplexed as if she was speaking a foreign language to us and seemed desperate to to find out where the bathroom was. What was she talking about? Time passed slowly, very slowly. Oh heavens, Hope used to be called Nick. I forgot.

So many times we find ourselves in such happy spaces with life moving blissfully forward that we don’t remember that our existence was different at one point. We simply don’t remember right away. That might sound strange to the outsider. How could you not quickly recall that your child was once identified as male? Odd as it may sound, I do, I forget.

I guess I don’t see her as anything but Hope. Even when she had a different name and was identified as a different gender, she was always the same person, the same child: sweet, funny, intelligent, tender, playful, responsible, intuitive. She is just the same today. Granted she is way happier with people understanding who she understands herself to be, and that’s a good thing; however, not much has changed since she transitioned. Maybe her clothes got a little more colorful and her hair got longer, but she is the same wonderful person I’ve known since Day 1. And I’m grateful.

Even Will told our therapist that he thought the woman who was shouting at us was speaking to him. “Who’s Nick?” he said gesturing wildly with his hands, his shoulder bouncing up and down as his voice went up an octave, “My sister is Hope.” The words fell on my ears like kisses, this remarkable little person, two years younger than his sister and yet so protective and so extremely sensitive to her feelings. What a blessing that we are related to this tiny champion, but then again, there are no mistakes in life. No roll of the dice in my opinion. Throw luck out the window on this one. We are all meant to be together, to be this family working through moments like this when things go from lazy day at the park to spotlight on Hope’s gender transition.

“It’s Hope now,” I explained to our now somewhat familiar interrogator as I gently placed my hand on Hope’s back. I think the woman worked at the preschool the kid attended in what seemed another lifetime.

“Is Nick at school then?” her urgency for crystal clear answers felt like a chill on an otherwise sunny afternoon. She wasn’t going to stop, was she? 

“I think you’ve forgotten, it’s Hope now,” I calmly, but strongly, informed her with a generous smile and a nod as if to say, “That’s it. Show’s over. Move along…” And she did. She still had the deer-in-the-headlights look, but she finally walked along.

When I glanced down at Hope safely cuddled in the crook of my arm she looked oddly cool, calm and collected. Strong. Even though I offered, she didn’t want to leave right away and for that I was incredibly grateful. She didn’t need to run away from what happened or any of the realities I tend to forget. She wasn’t afraid to be in that space, as uncomfortable as it was. None of us were, and that still amazes me. I guess that means we’re finding our ground day by day. Moment by moment.

Every time I would be ready to take the step into the light I found some way to go in the other direction. I wasn’t really ready at all. Like many parents of gender diverse children, I feared that someone would hurt my children because they do not agree with our lives. That thought paralyzes me, the power of people who simply don’t understand. It took me a year to pull myself up by the bootstraps and remind myself that nothing will get better unless we educate the community and advocate for all of our children and their families.

Once the book was published and sitting in my hot, little hands, I felt the strength to put aside my fears and practice what I preach. I needed to believe in being who I was, a mom who loves her children with every fiber of her being. Still, I wondered how I could put a barrier between the image of my public self and the reality of my private self for their sake. Kind of a disconnect for folks seeking to do us harm. I guess living stealth for this long made me question everything around me and I wondered how I could insulate my children from any negative backlash.

Glasses! There you go! Sure, I usually wear my glasses when doing things with my advocacy work and they might make me look a little different, but would that make a significant difference? Then my mother suggested I wear a wig to cover my signature short pixie. I have to tell you, I considered it for a second before I remembered how ridiculous it was. Why do I need to camouflage myself?

The fear is real. It’s what prevents parents and caregivers across the country (and the world) from allowing their child to present as their identified gender outside the home. Every time I talk about gender diversity or talk with families in similar circumstances I relate the single experience that made the biggest impact on me and my family. It was the afternoon my child (pre-transition) asked me if he could wear a dress to a concert in the park.

When he asked I could feel time slow to a crawl as he stared at me, searching for the answer to a question that he didn’t directly ask. He was really asking if I believed everything I told the kids about being true to yourself. Was it really okay for him to wear a dress to the concert if he wanted? Then I asked myself. Did I really stand behind my own words? Could we handle the transition from him presenting inside the house to him presenting outside in the real world? It’s a big jump, and we did it.

Once you make that leap to presenting in the outside world, things change. Yes, you are free for the first time. Free to express yourself out in the open. What a liberating moment! I saw the exuberance on my child’s face being able to walk outdoors with a favorite outfit on. At the same time, I started to build a layer of armour against the dirty looks and the unkind comments like “Why is that boy wearing a pink dress?” Subconsciously I piled on more emotional protection when family and friends turned their backs on us as my child moved from just presenting full-time to transitioning to living full-time as her identified gender, a girl. The pain was immense. The loss, hard to make sense of yourself, let alone explain to small children.

Slowly I began to realize that the hiding I was doing, even as insignificant as it seemed, was unnecessary. If people wanted to find me, they would. As a mom, I am in protector mode 24/7 so that will never change. I trust myself. I will always put my best foot forward with regards to their safety and well-being, my only true concern, and now I’ve slowly started to accept that the light isn’t a threat. It is a freedom.

I showed up to the television studio unsure of what I was going to say and waited patiently as everyone busily prepared around me. My hands fiddled with my glasses as I listened to my kirtan music through headphones. I nervously put them on and then I took them off as if I was testing the waters. The more Krishna Das sang in my ears, the less I tugged at my glasses. At one point I took them off, slipped them into my handbag and then I totally let them go. Even before the producer finished asking me if I was ready I was nodding my head up and down, steady in my resolve. I had successfully taken off my glasses.

Just like that afternoon when my child confidently walked outside the front door ready to go to the concert, I smiled as I sat down in my seat, raised my head proudly and looked straight into the lens.

My heart sank. The mother of the 9-year-old victim spoke eloquently about how her daughter, born on 9/11, was brought into this world amidst tragedy and left this world in the same helpless circumstance. As I wiped the tears I could not hold back, my two little children played upstairs unaware of the hatred in this world.

From time to time I get a glimpse of that small mindedness here on this blog, my simple, safe space that I share with the world. Often the comments are so inappropriate that I do not post them, so I keep them hidden from you and me and them as if they never existed at all. But is that fair? I pocket the hate sometimes like an old receipt that I feel the irrational need to keep, but can’t seem to file away in the right place. So it lingers in a jacket that’s out of season left hanging in the closet. Forgotten, but there.

Here I’m on the cusp of being public for the first time to promote the book and I’m still not quite sure how to deal with hate? A friend’s voice whispers in my ear that compassion is the key. Easier said than done sometimes I think. In the past my knee jerk response to this conflict was fear, but I see how that doesn’t serve me. It doesn’t come close to satisfying what is present in my heart.

Last year a parent who was acting on the defensive (long story) threatened to out my daughter, who lives stealth. The mere mention of this sent me into a panic. Shaking, I sat at the kitchen table like a statue, unable to stop the rage and fear that pulsed through me like sparks flying off jumper cables. One part of me wanted to unleash my wrath, protect my child at any cost. Mama Bear was not happy. The other part of me wondered what I could do to defuse the situation. “How do I make this woman leave us alone?” I thought. I wanted to run away. Change our name and never look back. Looking back I recognize that her threats were out of my control. The only thing I was responsible for is my reaction to the situation.

Say the same scenario happens today, how do I react? How do I seize the opportunity for compassion and go there. Jump into the messy parts of misunderstanding and small mindedness and create a small space for love, for what it’s worth. Would it bridge the gap between she and I? Would she come to a greater understanding of my child’s diversity and I to a deeper knowledge of her fears? That’s yet to be seen.

We’ll never make sense of hatred, let’s face it. The only action I can control, especially when faced with tragedy like what happened in Arizona, is to muster up the courage to show compassion for all people, and teach my children to do the same.

Sure, our compliant smiles said “We are a totally normal family who doesn’t pose a threat to anyone… Really!” but the agent’s face twisted and turned as he went rifled through our paperwork, eyes darting from the details on the page to each one of us with a burning look of authority. Our smiles became forced and then it just plain hurt to maintain them. Still, we struggled with equal intensity to look like your typical, unassuming family who just wants to get through airport security without incident. Guessing from the way I felt like I was going to pass out, I think we were holding our breath, too.

“So little man, what’s your name?” said the agent, his eyes fixed so intensely on Will that I thought my son might catch fire.

Without hesitation, Will blankly replied, “Tony.”

Our heads snapped to glare at Will who was not smiling, mind you, but rather looking as bored as bored could be. Tony? Oh, Tony Stark… Iron Man. In that moment I forgot that Will had signed his schoolwork as Tony. Little writing samples, holiday ornaments and artwork all reflecting the wrong name, but now? Now when we are trying so hard to walk through this situation unscathed.

“Damn that Tony!” I thought, “He’s going to get us thrown into the scanners quicker than you could spell bomb scare.” The agents eyes scanned the paperwork, probably wondering if he should check an Amber Alert for this cute, missing Tony.

“This isn’t the person you should joke with,” Hope leaned into whisper, but it came out like a shout. Kind of like when my mom tries to talk in church. “This is serious.”

Under his breath a barely audible “Will” came out and I was sure we were sunk. Get ready for a cavity search and a discussion with the police. Now I didn’t give a second thought to Hope’s transgender status in a body scanner. That was nothing. In that moment I was way more concerned with how I’d convince the TSA that Will was not Tony. Isn’t that how life pulls a switcheroo on you? You prepare for one thing and end up dealing with another.

All of the sudden my paperwork was beneath my nose and an arm ushered us to the conveyor belt near the rest of the busy travelers. As I walked in disbelief I glanced back to the agent who had moved on to the next person like nothing ever happened. He let us go! I mouthed a “thank you” to the back of the agent’s head and closed my eyes as I removed my shoes and released my stagnant breath in a heavy sigh. Thank you.

Body scanners. The buzz about our airport getting the x-ray machines whirled around my brain. What does that mean for Hope? Her ticket has her chosen name on it and we’ve never had any trouble traveling before, but what happens when she walks through a scanner and her anatomy doesn’t match her gender presentation and name? Would we be pulled aside? Would they separate us? Would the paperwork I carry from our therapist and pediatrician satisfy them? I’ve heard that if you decline the scanner, you automatically get a pat down by TSA. Not the option my private daughter would feel comfortable with either so what are our options?

Each scenario played out differently in my brain. Best case – maybe it wouldn’t be an issue? Perhaps she’d confidently walk through the scanner like everyone else and that’s it. Alternatively she could walk through and they could question her identity. I rehearsed my responses. I’d quickly provide her paperwork and they would accept it. Hope might be aware of it, but I could prepare her for that. Just as easily though, they could make a big deal of it. Would they? Do they? The possibilities seemed to spring from one side of my reasoning, the more logical side, to the more desperate, fearful side and then back again.

Each day brings new challenges. Yesterday it was how to find a ballet leotard that didn’t reveal too much. Today it is explaining body scanners to my kids. Tomorrow it will be something different. We can’t complain, really. Everyone has something that they have to work at or cope with. Everyone. Still, my heart feels heavy for every person who has to share their private struggles openly with the world, like my transgender daughter.

It’s not just the way people “read” her in terms of her gender, but the severe disconnect in her life, similar to other trans individuals. In many cases their birth certificate doesn’t match their chosen name. Their gender marker is wrong on their license. They have to explain their transition daily to just about everyone from the dentist’s office to the mail carrier. They have to educate family and friends about how they truly feel. Their body doesn’t match their brain. And it’s mostly public, right out there for everyone to see. Just imagine the courage it takes to pursue the life you know to be true. How much fortitude, perseverance and tenacity it takes to eliminate the disconnect. I’m continually inspired.

As I zipped the bulging suitcase shut I repeated a little mantra that goes like this… I stand in my truth. Every word and action will be there when I need it. As long as I have my breath I can handle any situation. And I repeated it until I believed it to be true. And it is. Whatever challenge arises, I know I have what it takes to figure it out, to keep the kids safe and to be true to myself. That’s all I need.

Such a long lesson in patience my friends, but isn’t that the way life leads us where we need to go? Recently I met with a lovely reporter who interviewed me months ago about the book and commented that I seemed much more at ease now. I had to admit to her that I didn’t know how I’d feel when the book was released. Would I summon the courage necessary to charge forward and spread this powerful message? Would I feel exposed on some basic level and feel paralyzed to move forward? I didn’t know. I was still thinking.

On one hand I feel like a warrior, ready to talk, discuss and educate, even with those people who do not agree with our perspective. On the other hand I feel like it is a giant leap, especially when I try to keep our real names and identities unknown. I think most families with gender non-conforming kids, especially those that have transitioned may feel this way. Visibility vs. Invisibility. Ever since Hope’s transition and I started writing this blog I have stepped back in many aspects of my life. I needed to. I abandoned my former career, a certain level of notoriety and even some friends that made my social circle as wide open as I wanted. I went from being in the center to walking away. Gladly.

During this time I’ve done some serious soul-searching, seeking awareness, even enlightenment, as I open myself to every single thing that scares me. While keeping my children safe was my primary focus during the hiatus, I think I took the chance to get away myself, just to think. I look back at all those mornings on the beach this summer when I watched those two carefree souls frolicking and splashing. I know now that I was gearing up. I was charging the battery. Getting strong. All that together time made us closer than ever and we needed it, probably more than we’ll ever know. I needed to be quiet in my thoughts for some time to really feel through what it was that I was after. Define what I was called to do.

Now I sit on my living room couch gazing at wood in the hearth just begging for fire. I feel like that wood, ready for the spark. Ready to begin. I know what I’m after – to tell our story, to raise awareness, to make this world a better place for my children and all children. I’ve had my time to think and rest, and now I’m ready to get to work.

I worked tirelessly to prevent any harm from coming to my child, including removing her from the school system who chose to turn a blind eye to the repeated harassment. (My Mama Bear was out!) While I cannot know whether the bullying was due to any knowledge of gender issues, from the outside it didn’t seem to be the case. My daughter attended school stealth so that her birth gender wasn’t the focus of the Kindergarten year and education was. We only wanted a positive experience. What we got was a nightmare of epic proportions ending with my daughter waking up in the middle of the night screaming that the bullying child was hurting her.

Clearly this isn’t anyone’s idea of Kindergarten for their child. Once school was over and my child was freed from her daily stalker, we sat down and wrote a children’s book (the next one in the series) about how Hope sees a friend being bullied on the playground and acts as an ally. Cathartic experience for both of us. (Of course I needed to take that extra step so I went on to write a chapter in my novel about what parents can do before, during and after a bullying incident to protect their children. Don’t get me started on how I filed a formal complaint and had the school investigated!)

As the weeks turned to months it became crystal clear that Hope didn’t only have issues with the child, but with her teacher and the Principal who turned their heads when they knew this child would torture her every day. They failed her. They failed the other child. They didn’t protect her at all. The trust that should have been established in that classroom, her only indication of what school was all about, was irrevocably broken.

Why didn’t anyone stand up? Afterward parents would come to me and tell me that their child would tell them about how Hope was bullied every day and my response was, “Why didn’t you say something?” Deer in the headlights back at me. They didn’t have to take on the whole school system, but they could have come to me or someone in the administration sooner. Perhaps they did and no one listened? Do we really have to live in fear of the people whose jobs are to educate our children? Shouldn’t we expect that someone, anyone, will speak up and advocate if a child is harmed at school and when they do they will be heard and taken seriously? The epidemic of bullying has to be stopped.

All summer we worked on confidence building so that she could begin to trust that not all educators are that negligent. Not everyone will let her down. We talked about seeing the child who bullies as a person with serious problems who needs help to stop their destructive behavior. It’s been slow, but positive. We talk a lot about how we are allies for others, how we believe in the safety of all people and how we have a voice to use when we see something going wrong.

It’s not going to change the world right now, but it has created two little loving advocates in my children. I can’t say I appreciate the experience we had last year. It was brutal. But it did lead us to where we are right now, where we are all more compassionate for others, both for the people getting hurt and for the troubled people who hurt them.